Page 47 of Finders Keepers
As I stroll back in the direction of my parents’ house, my body tingles in all sorts of distracting places as it plays a highlight reel of the few moments I managed to collect today: the heat of Quentin’s breath on my skin, his hardness pressed against me, his fingers gripping my hip…
Oh god. I’m out here giving a whole new meaning to getting horny on Main.
That’s it. I take a hard left instead of continuing down the street. I’m going to the library. I need to figure out if this treasure exists and where it is. And there’s nothing sexy about the special collections room, so I’ll be safe there.
A whispery voice that may be my conscience asks if I should be doing this without Quentin, or without at least giving him a heads-up. But it’s only research, and if I find anything promising I’ll make sure to tell him. It’s not like I’m going to Sprangbur and hunting for the thing alone.
Not this time at least.
Besides, the special collections room is open today but closed on the weekends. I am simply saving us time. Also, Mrs. MacDonald is not Quentin’s biggest fan because of the whole gum thing. Which is why it makes no sense to text Quentin to let him know I’m doing this. I can’t let him invite himself along, for both Mrs. MacDonald reasons and my needing space from him reasons.
So really, this is the best thing I could be doing. For both of us.
Especially because of how badly I wish we were doing it together.
21
Even though thespecial collections room is supposed to be open from noon to four on Fridays, when I arrive at half past twelve, the door is locked and no one seems to be inside.A sign that I am not supposed to be doing this?a tiny guilty voice in my brain suggests. Just as I’m about to go to the circulation desk and ask if they know what’s going on, Mrs. MacDonald appears from the direction of the elevator, breathing heavily and moving slowly.
“I’m here,” she says.
It takes a while for her to dig through her bulging leather purse to find the key, and even longer for her to fit it into the lock and turn it. What her hands lack in steadiness, her pride more than makes up for, and she refuses my offer of help.
“Back again, huh?” she asks as I finally follow her inside. “Where’s your little boyfriend?”
My cheeks go hot. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Whatever you want to call him, then. I’m not hip to the current slang,” she says.
It’s probably easier to answer her question than to both find and explain a label that fits the strange friends-but-not-but-yes-but-there’s-definitely-chemistry situation Quentin and I have found ourselves in. “He’s busy today.”
“Probably sticking gum places it doesn’t belong,” she mumbles with a sneer.
I press my lips together, trying not to smile. “I don’t want to bother you too much,” I start.
Mrs. MacDonald gives me a look that says I’m already failing. It’s the same one she used to give me when I would ask her research questions or about archival practices when I was here as a teen. And I suddenly understand that it’s all bluster. She’s never once actually been put out by my curiosity or requests. This has been her job for decades, and despite her hard demeanor, she must love it immensely to have continued doing it all this time. Lord knows it can’t pay that well.
“I was hoping to look at the Fountain materials again,” I say as she lowers herself into the chair behind her desk.
She pauses. “Of course you were.” I wince, knowing she’s now going to have to get right back up. But to my utter shock, she says, “You know where they are. Help yourself.”
“What?”
“It’s going to rain tonight,” she says by way of explanation.
“Uh…”
“My arthritis. Feels like someone’s kicked me all over while wearing steel-toe boots.”
“That’s…a vivid description,” I say. “I’m sorry that you’re dealing with that.”
She waves off my sympathy. “I finally made it here, and I’m not getting up for nobody. Especially not when I know you’re perfectly capable.”
Mrs. MacDonald calling me perfectly capable rivals the first time my PhD adviser called me Dr. Hunnicutt after I passed my defense. An actual tear wells in my eye. “Thank you,” I say, omit theI promise to make you proudthat nearly follows, and head into the stacks.
Once I’ve brought the boxes to the table in the center of the room, I reexamine our amateur finding aid. I start with the photos again, searching them for anything we may have missed last time around while we were focused on the Whale portrait. An hour later, when picture after picture of Sprangbur starts blending into a bunch of black-and-white blobs, I switch over to the Fountain Seltzer administrative and governing documents. I pause for a moment when I reach a parenthetical note at the bottom of typed meeting minutes that Julius Fountain’s opinions on the matter at hand had been primarily shouted from an adjoining room while he watched the proceedings via strategically placed mirrors. Louisa Worman must have been an absolute saint to put up with him for as long as she did.
By three o’clock, I decide that if I read another conversation about bottling logistics or wholesale marketing strategy I will scream. I stand and stretch toward the ceiling, my neck clicking as I finally look up after hours of looking down.
